


A Flame Among Shadows

by MulticoloredRosePetals



Series: A Rose Among Thorns [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulticoloredRosePetals/pseuds/MulticoloredRosePetals
Summary: ***Sequel to "A Rose Among Thorns"*** Erik and Christine have at last made it to Paris. But demons from their past - dark shadows made of memory - have found them there. There will be no peace until these monsters can be reckoned with. E/C.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Meg Giry/Original Male Character(s), Raoul de Chagny/Original Male Character(s)
Series: A Rose Among Thorns [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168646
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Welcome to the sequel to "A Rose Among Thorns". I hope you enjoy this one.
> 
> Disclaimer: If you have not read "A Rose Among Thorns" please do so before starting this one - this is not a standalone, but is a continuation of that story.
> 
> Get ready! I have interesting plans ahead :)
> 
> Enjoy!

\-----Erik-----

I was death made flesh.

And blood.

And bone.

And as the Devil's messenger, as the Grim Reaper's heir, I took immense pleasure in ripping the souls from the flesh, blood, and bone of others. It was my greatest delight. My one true calling. More than magic. More than music. Nothing else mattered but the sensation of feeling another's heart still beneath my hand.

The rolling of eyes, whitening of lips, dropping of bodies. The final screams. That was magic. That was music.

My latest victim was a girl of eighteen. No, nineteen. Beautiful. Slim and evenly-proportioned. A heart-shaped face. Thick locks of curling brown hair, and eyes the color of a clear winter's sky. She looked like life.

She smelled like roses.

The girl entered the enormous room of mirrors, in which I'd designed and constructed a glass chamber. I could see in, but the victims could see only their own reflections. She held her head high, absolutely unafraid, even as she was clad in revealing clothing fit for a concubine. Even as she had her hands shackled behind her back.

I smiled, anticipation simmering in my veins. Such courage in her poise - I couldn't wait to burn it away into nothing. Burn her away to ashes.

I opened the door to the chamber, allowing the guards to place her inside. Beside me, the Shah of Persia watched. So did the Grand Vizier, the Daroga. All those guards. Here to watch her suffer and die.

She was wordless as I closed the door to the chamber, as she stared at the metal tree. As she felt the thing heat up, gradually making the space unbearably hot.

I watched as she wobbled and fell to her knees, panting under the oppressive temperature. Yelping horribly as her bare legs hit the burning floor, as her skin turned red. As the chamber cooked her alive.

The Shah laughed with glee at the sight, and I too smiled with pleasure.

But then the girl's eyes found mine.

And my smile was wiped away.

Something-

Something was not right. Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

I felt my insides clench, I felt my heart hammer. This was...this was...

Christine.

Her name was Christine.

I loved her. She loved me.

And I had built the thing that was killing her.

I. Was. Killing. Her.

My former sick joy disappeared, replaced with absolute horror. The Shah disappeared. All the rest - Grand Vizier, Daroga, guards - they all evaporated as well. The room turned hazy, until it was only me watching Christine. Watching the life leave her eyes.

I screamed.

\- - - - - - - - - -

"Erik."

I gasped, opening my eyes. Darkness surrounded me, but I wasn't in the Mirror Hall. I was in the bedroom I shared with her. Christine. My Christine.

And we weren't in Persia. We were in France. Paris. Safe.

That didn't stop the nausea that roiled in my stomach at what I'd just dreamed.

Every night. Night after night. I dreamed that I took pleasure in those horrible deaths. I dreamed that I killed my love.

She was leaning over me. "Was it...another...?" Her worried eyes searched mine.

I nodded soundlessly.

And then the nausea was too much.

I rolled off the bed, went to the floor, and found the chamber pot under the mattress.

I emptied my insides.

Back in Tehran, there had been rumors that the Angel of Death needed no food, no sleep - that he was like a vampire. He found rest and nourishment from the blood of his victims.

I wished this was true.

For though I had at last found peace, peace had not found me.

No, the demons I'd thought I'd escaped had followed right behind, silent as all of the graves I'd sent my victims to.

I vomited again, wishing that Christine's hands on my back were soothing.

They only made me feel guilt.

Only made me feel sicker.

I closed my eyes and waited for this storm to pass. Prayed to a silent God that morning would arrive soon.

Wished that I could forget everything, but knowing that those memories would never go away.

They were here to stay.


	2. The Tether

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously - I have a STORY in mind for this (more than "just" character-development), and I can't wait to tell it :) SO EXCITED.

\-----Christine-----

"Going to the right, Reza."

The boy nodded. One hand, his left hand, gripped mine. His other was holding his cane, swinging and tapping it on the ground. That cane was his eyes, and though his little fingers gripped mine with surprising strength, my help wasn't always enough to keep him from bumping into or tripping over his surroundings. Especially here, in Paris. A large city, constantly bustling. Though he'd lived in a city just as massive - Tehran, Persia - he'd been quite sheltered, almost never leaving his house. So now, half a year after we'd left that place behind, he was still getting used to expertly navigating his new home.

"Christine?"

We turned the corner. Before responding, I watched to ensure that his feet were in fact following mine, and that he didn't pull forward into the street. I exhaled. He'd been nearly run over by a passing carriage once or twice, and now I never let go of his hand. Even when he complained it was feeling sweaty in my grip (which was happening quite often in these hot August days).

"Yes, Reza?" I said, finally looking at him. My apartment was on this street. No more frightening turns or crossing the street.

"Will Erik like his birthday gift?"

I looked down at the parcel in my free hand. A thick ream of lined music paper - extremely high quality. Much nicer than he usually bought.

"I think so," I said. "He loves music."

Reza nodded. "He seems to be sad about it, though. Recently."

I didn't say anything. I knew this to be true, but it was...complicated. More complicated than Reza might understand. Erik still loved music. I knew he did. But it was the fact that he felt he wasn't contributing anything with just his music that made him lose his luster when talking about it.

He was writing scores for my father to play. And though the pieces were lovely, Erik constantly claimed that they were not what they could be, that he didn't want his name attached to them because they lacked his usual passion. He still gave them to my father because it was a free piece of music for him to use. And that was the only way he felt he could contribute to the household - unable to find a normal career.

Erik wanted to earn his place in our family. Even now, he felt that he didn't quite deserve it.

But he was my husband. Of course he deserved my love and care. His father-in-law's love and care.

He'd been my tether to sanity while in Persia. I'd been his. Our wary regard for one another had turned into a beautiful friendship, which had then transformed into the most healing and fulfilling kind of love. I would love him forever.

"Erik still loves music," I said to him finally, as we approached the door to the apartment. We were on the first floor. I let go of his hand, went for the key in my purse, and unlocked the door. "That's not what he's sad about." I tucked the key away again.

"Then what is he sad about?" he asked.

I bit my lip, fingers now on the handle. "It's...complicated Reza." I blew out a breath. "Are you hungry?"

He accepted the change of topic immediately. "Yes!"

I smiled. Nadir had let Reza stay for the day, and the boy wouldn't be expected back home until tonight. "All right. You remember which room Erik is usually in?"

"The study."

"Right. Go tell him I'm preparing soup."

"What kind?"

"Onion. Your favorite."

"Yes!" He clenched his fist in joy and pumped it. I laughed. When he'd first heard I would be making onion soup upon arrival in Paris, he'd made a face of disgust. Only when he tried it did he change his mind.

I unlocked the door, and Reza sped, swinging his cane, toward the study, which was in the middle of the hall to the right. I went to the kitchen. Once the soup was on, then I would go and greet Erik.

But not five minutes after I'd started chopping onions, did he arrive into the kitchen with Reza on his shoulders. I smiled at him - at his bare face. He never wore his mask now. He didn't need to. It was collecting dust in one of the drawers of our bedroom.

"Not even a hello?" he asked. I melted - his voice always, even now, did that to me.

I held up the knife. "I was hungry."

He eyed the blade. "Well, I certainly won't impede on your need for food - not when you're armed and dangerous."

I turned back to the ingredients. "Good." I continued chopping onion. "I was going to come and say hello - you only had to be patient." No sound, and I realized that he was staring at me, eyes unreadable. I gave him a look. "What?"

He smiled, and placed Reza on the floor. "Ayesha is on the rug of the study. I need to speak to Christine for a few minutes. Can you go pet her while I'm in here? Remember to be gentle."

"Yes. All right." Reza placed a hand on the wall and felt his way back to the room, just down the hall. I knew Ayesha wouldn't mind - she liked him almost as much as she liked Erik. 

I raised a brow at him as Reza left our earshot. "You needed to speak with me?"

"Wanted to. Privately." He approached, and I faced him fully, putting the knife down. He put both hands on either side of my head and kissed my forehead.

Content. I was completely content.

I'd worried, on our way to Paris, whether our home would still be available to us, or if it had been rented out to someone else. But the landlord had understood - he'd frozen payments until my father returned. And as loved as a musician as he was, he was able to start right back into concerts.

Nothing was wrong now. Nothing. Except for...one thing.

"Did you and Reza go shopping?" he asked against my skin.

I nodded. "Yes." I tilted my face up to his. "And we bought you a birthday gift."

Surprise flashed in his eyes. "Oh?"

"Yes. It's on the counter there." I nodded to the parcel sitting in the corner. "But you aren't to open it until dinner tonight. Nadir will be coming too. I'm cooking dinner for your twenty-first birthday. And I'm baking a cake as well - so I'll be unavailable today for company, I'm afraid. Unless you want to sit in here."

He kissed me again. "I haven't celebrated my birthday in years."

"How many years?"

"I believe my eighth birthday was the last."

I frowned. "But...in Venice."

"I didn't mention it. It wasn't so important. It had only been special once because of Marie." He stroked a finger down my cheek. "But I love that you're thinking of it."

I met his hand with my own. "I love you."

"I love you too." But a bit of pain was laced there. "Are you...certain...you're not-"

"I'm fine." I smiled at my husband. "I know what you're going to ask. And I'm fine. Don't worry."

He nodded, but looked away.

The unspoken question lingered between us: Are you sure you're not impatient with me?

Impatient, because we had not made love since our wedding night. Months ago. And even that had been a stressful affair. He hadn't finished; he had begun to panic instead. Apparently he'd been having nightmares the entire time we'd travelled. I hadn't known - I hadn't slept in the same bed as him. Not when my father was on the journey with us. And he hadn't told me.

But I'd be patient.

"Did I ever tell you," he said, "that Vincenzo thought birthdays were silly?"

I smiled and shook my head. Vincenzo. Of the people Erik had written to me about, he'd been one of my favorites. He'd also been one of the hardest to picture - I kept imagining him much older, in his thirties, when he was only a couple of years Erik's senior. He'd even been the fuzziest in my vision within the Chamber, come to think of it. I hadn't really noticed it then, as my mind had been cooking in my skull, but in hindsight - he had been the least clear.

"I didn't know that," I said. "Why is that?"

"I don't know." He chuckled. "But he would change his birthday often. Either he didn't know it or he wanted to point out the ridiculousness of celebrating one's birth. I don't know."

"I don't think it's ridiculous. I think it's a celebration of life." I wrapped my arms around him and continued looking up at his face. "I want to celebrate your life."

I saw his response in his face.

There's not much to celebrate, he wanted to say.

But instead, he murmured, "Whatever you wish, my darling."


	3. The Celebration

\-----Erik-----

The door to the study was open, and through the doorway, I could hear the soft, lovely sounds of Christine and Reza hard at work baking a cake. My cake. For my birthday - a thing I hadn't celebrated in years. For so long, there'd been no reason to celebrate it.

To this day, I felt little cause for celebration. But it was important to her, so rejoice in my unfortunate birth we would.

I listened to them work. Laugh and talk. I sat back in the desk chair, the desk itself against the curtained window. Light peeked through, the rays of afternoon sunshine catching on motes of dust in the air, like hundreds of glittering stars. I watched these little stars and heard Reza yell his excitement at successfully cracking his first egg. I heard Christine clap and cheer and ask him to do it again.

I smiled and closed my eyes. Happy. I should have been happy. And I was - I was. But those...those shadows would appear, interrupting the light. Making those hundreds of stars wink out one by one until I saw them for what they were:

Dust. Dirty and unliving.

I shook my head and stared down at the piece of music before me. It was good - I was sure it was. I'd told Christine and her father - my father-in-law - that I wouldn't play them because I didn't feel they were my best. I told Gustave that he could play them for free, since he happened to like them.

In truth, I liked them too. And would have loved to play them for the public.

But I'd tried. I'd attempted to follow Gustave to theatres and parks and parties to sing as he played violin, but my mask - my entire appearance - made audiences uneasy. Hosts and venue managers would ask me to remove my mask. I would, of course, refuse. The only reason audiences in my past tolerated the way I looked when I sang was because the song was usually deeply unsettling or sad, and my appearance suited those elements.

And I could do that again. I could sing tragedies, make my voice eerie, as I'd done with Javert. As I'd done in Russia. I could. And I could likely make a fortune doing so.

The problem was that I no longer wanted to be associated with grief, with horror. I wanted to leave that behind me.

So I would give my music to my father-in-law to play, or to Christine to sing when she tagged along with Gustave to a venue once or twice a week. I would contribute to the household that way.

But was it even enough?

Despite what Christine said, was I enough?

\- - - - - - - - - -

"Yes, I read about it in the paper."

At Nadir's words, Gustave frowned at him from the head of the table. I was seated on the other end, with Christine and Reza on either side of me. Nadir sat next to his son, currently finishing the last morsels of meat.

"That's...quite troubling," said my father-in-law.

"The real question," I said, swirling my wine around in my glass, staring into the red liquid. Christine was drinking from her own glass. "The real question, of course, is which paper you read it from."

Nadir eyed me through his glasses with jade eyes, pausing in his cutting. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you say you read it in 'the paper'," I said, and now all eyes are on me. "Was it a newspaper? A page from a novel? A random scrap of parchment you found on the ground? I think some context is in order."

He sighed through his nose and finished chewing his food. He swallowed. Christine and her father shared an amused look. "It was a newspaper, of course," said the former Daroga.

"You could have been more specific, Nadir."

"I thought it could be assumed."

"Well, you know what they say about assuming. It makes an ass out of-"

"Must you be so obtuse?" His voice was resigned, and Christine cleared her throat, giving me a look that asked me to not engage any further - that this was meant to be pleasant family meal. But something about making Nadir annoyed, angry even, brought me a level of petty satisfaction I couldn't explain.

"I'm not obtuse, my friend. I'm insufferable. There's a difference." I toasted him with my wine and sipped.

Nadir sat up a bit straighter. "Your insistence on acting obtuse is what is insufferable-"

"Cake, anyone?" Christine stood up. She gave me a wide-eyed expression that said we'd be talking about this later. That was fine. I'd soften her mood with little issue.

I smiled at her with all the charm I could muster. "That sounds lovely, my darling."

"Make sure you specify what kind of cake you're bringing," called Nadir as Christine hurried into the kitchen. "Otherwise your husband might become terribly lost and confused."

I continued smiling at him, though now it was less a grin and more of a bearing-of-teeth. "Now, now, Nadir. It's my birthday. Be nice to the birthday boy."

"It's a chocolate cake!" exclaimed Reza.

My smile became genuine again. "Yes, and thank you for baking it, Reza."

He beamed.

"What you were saying, Nadir," said my father-in-law. "About the thieves?"

"Yes," Nadir said, turning again to him. "There was an uptick in thefts about a year ago, here in Paris. Did you not know that?"

"No, I was not too focused on current events back then."

Of course he wasn't, I thought, staring at him. Christine had still been in Persia - he was likely able to think of nothing but that.

"Well, the thieves are targeting the rich. The thefts have been steadily increasing. All I was saying is that we should all be careful - no one has yet been able to catch them."

Christine returned with a large, expertly-frosted cake. Clearly her artistic abilities were not limited to pen and paper, though I'd already known this. She set it down before me. "Don't move - I'll be back." And she was off again, only to return with a large silver black-handled knife. She held out the utensil for me to take. "Here. You cut the first piece - tradition."

I nodded and was about to reach for the blade, when it...changed.

The entire room changed.

The lights went out, and every person at the table was dead. Eyes glossed over, mouths agape, skin ashen. Every throat was slit clean through. Blood was pooling on the ground beneath their feet, on the table.

It was dripping from the knife. Dripping from my hands.

I gasped harshly and stood, the chair toppled over behind me, and the dining room was back to normal. My family was alive again. I stared at the knife, clean once more, but my hands (also clean) were shaking.

I felt them all staring. No one spoke. Until Christine, her face wan, whispered, "Erik?"

"You cut it," I said, voice quivering. "You cut it. Please."

She nodded slowly, glancing at the rest of them. They were all frowning, eyes troubled, watching me.

"Erik?" said Reza, leaning forward, gripping the table. "Are you all right?"

I looked away, swallowing. "Yes. I'm fine."

Only when that knife was back in the kitchen did I sit. It took a fair few minutes for anyone to start eating, to start talking. When Nadir and Gustave began chatting once more, Christine put a hand on my own still-shaking fingers and asked me if I wanted to talk to her.

I said no.

I said I was fine.

Just another vision. But it was fine.

It was fine.


End file.
